


Hard to Get

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4241454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at the fete where John and Paul first met. Mentions of teen het sex, but no actual descriptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard to Get

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the process of archiving my previously written fic here. This was originally written for the johnheartpaul comm on lj.

"Come on, Paul!"

"Yeah, yeah," shouted Paul down the stairs to his friend. "Hang on."

He looked in the mirror one more time, combing his hair back in as close an approximation to Elvis as he could, then threw on his jacket, slung his guitar over his shoulder and headed down the stairs to join Ivan.

"You don't need your guitar, you git," said Ivan when he saw him.

"Never know, mate," replied Paul. "Always be prepared, you know. Might be a nice little girl who'll give it up for a musician."

"Come on, Paul, you know all you have to do is give them the famous McCartney wink and they'll be all over you. And you don't want to lug that guitar around all bloody day."

Paul laughed and put his guitar down, clapping his friend on the back as they headed out the door. It was a lovely summer day and they were off to the village fete. Not particularly interested in ring toss and guess the number of sweets in the jar contests, it was nonetheless free entertainment and there was always the chance they'd meet girls who were bored enough to go off with them. Paul was what he liked to call between girlfriends at the moment and when Ivan had suggested they go down to the churchyard today and see his friend John's group, Paul had been happy to agree. 

Not that he expected much. In his experience the music at these things tended to be uniformly awful - old men who thought they were hip playing banjos and ladies wearing too much makeup and purple satin dresses pretending they were Vera Lynn. Still, this group Ivan's friend was in played skiffle music, so maybe it wouldn't be completely hopeless. 

Paul was proud of his own guitar skills, had spent hours listening to the radio and trying to copy the sounds he was hearing, and one of his greatest wishes was to be in a band of his own playing rock and roll. He hadn't found anyone to play with, though. Oh, there was this bloke at school who was pretty good, but he was younger than Paul and Paul felt a little odd hanging out with him - too much like letting his little brother tag along. In truth, he was looking forward to hearing this band today and maybe making some friends who were as interested in rock and roll as he was.

The fete itself was boring, as expected. Little kids running around playing all the silly games while the adults sat in the beer tent and talked about the weather. Still, there was a chip van and a friend of Ivan's dad bought them a pint and there was a lovely girl from school wearing a yellow dress that showed off her tits who smiled at Paul in a way that gave him hope he'd be getting a closer look at those tits in the not-too-distant future. And she had a friend for Ivan so they were both well pleased.

Then it was time for the skiffle group - The Quarry Men, they were called - to perform so Ivan and Paul ambled over in that direction. They were still a ways from the stage when they could hear the music - a little ragged, Paul thought, and the singer didn't know the words. Sloppy, really. Still, what had he really expected from a fete?

Then they got to where they could actually see the stage, and Paul found himself revising his opinion. Oh, their playing was still shite and the singer still didn't know the words, but there was something about them, something that drew your attention and kept it there.

Ivan nudged Paul and pointed out the singer, saying that was his friend John. He was young and red-cheeked and doing his best to look and sound like Elvis and making up his own words (which, Paul thought as he listened more closely, were really rather obscene) and not really all that good at all but, Christ, he was captivating. Paul found himself singing along (except Paul actually knew the words) and watching him as he wiggled like Elvis. The girls were clapping along and dancing and even the old fogies wandering by stopped to watch for a moment or two before shaking their heads in disgust and going off again.

\----------------------------

John grinned at the band, wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and turned back to the crowd to start the next song. He was in heaven - on stage playing music with a bunch of good friends, well on his way to being completely pissed from the pints they'd been sneaking from the beer tent, and, from the way the girl in the front row was flashing her smile at him, well on his way to getting laid tonight as well. He spotted his mate Ivan in the crowd and gave him a little nod, taking in Ivan's friend at the same time. Ivan had been sure that John and this mate of his would hit it off, though on first impressions John wasn't so sure. The boy looked like a little kid, just out of short pants, with those huge eyes and girlish lips. John looked away from him in disgust. Last thing he needed was to be saddled with a babysitting job while he was trying to get somewhere with his band.

They finished with a round of Be Bop A Lula, always a crowd pleaser, and went off to the Scout tent (conveniently placed next to the beer tent) where the ladies would give them lemonade and chocolate biscuits. Ivan and his friend showed up not long after.

"John, this is Paul," said Ivan, shoving Paul forward to be introduced.

They both nodded noncommittally at each other, John drinking down his beer-disguised-as-lemonade. John had heard a lot about this kid, not just from Ivan but from Pete as well, but he wasn't impressed at all. He wandered off to see if he could find that bird from the front row, maybe set something up for later in the evening after the second show.

He came back just in time for the second set, having no success at finding his bird. This set was to be inside the church hall, so they were busy piling the instruments onto the stage as he arrived. Paul was sat at the piano playing rock and roll chords and making up silly words to them. John was a little annoyed at the way the other members of the group seemed to be fawning over this kid, so he decided to put him to the test.

"Well now," he said, leaning over Paul's shoulder and breathing beer fumes into his face, "I've heard nothing but tales of miraculous doings from you, son, so let's hear something."

Paul moved his head slightly away from John's breath,

"Right," he answered, "what do you want to hear?"

"Oh, anything you think you can do," said John airily, waving a magnanimous hand in the air.

Paul looked at him for a minute, then turned back to the piano and played Be Bop A Lula, the last song he'd heard John play. John listened, impressed in spite of himself. The kid could actually play rock and roll piano, and he had quite a good voice. But they didn't need a piano player in the group. What they needed was a good lead guitar.

"Here," he said, "that's not bad, that. Can you play guitar?"

"Sure," said Paul, "but I left mine at home."

"Oh, well," said John, "we'll lend you one."

Paul took the proffered guitar and turned it upside down.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" laughed John. "Don't you even know how to hold it properly?"

"I'm left-handed," replied Paul, a little stiffly. "I need to turn it around."

"But you'll never play it upside down!"

Paul just smiled at him and, taking a moment to get his fingers placed properly, started to play Twenty Flight Rock. It was the hardest song he knew, and one that he and his mate Ian had just learned all the words to.

John listened, speechless. The kid really was good. Better than he was, in fact. He hadn't been expecting that. He was used to being the best of his gang of mates, the one who knew all about the music and who, even if he had a shit guitar and didn't really know all the songs, was the absolute leader. He had a moment of panic when he heard Paul play - what if the others realized that Paul was better than John? What if they wanted to play with Paul and not John?

He shook his head, telling himself not to be stupid. He was John Lennon, and all his mates wanted to be like him and no little kid with a pretty face would ever dislodge him from that position.

\--------------------------

Paul went home that night well chuffed with the way the day had gone. He thought he'd shown that John bloke that he was a pretty good guitar player, and he'd heard the odd mutter around the group that maybe they should ask him to join. That would be brilliant, that would. A real group, playing real music, with him on lead guitar, maybe even on vocals.

He wasn't sure about John, though. John hadn't really been free with his praise, though Paul got the feeling that he'd liked what Paul had done. He hoped so. There was something about John that Paul really, really liked. Something compelling. He couldn't quite figure out what it was, but he'd been aware, all afternoon, of where John was and what he was doing. It was odd as he'd never really noticed that feeling about anyone else before. Maybe that was what people called star power - that ability to make people notice you whether they wanted to or not. He imagined it must work very well on stage. 

He wondered, briefly, if he had it too. If not, well, did he really want to share a stage with John? Did he want to be out of the spotlight? Did it matter to him?

As he fell off to sleep he thought it probably did.

\---------------------

John lay awake thinking about the day just passed. He'd had a bloody good time when all was said and done, though he never did find that bird again The sunshine, the music, the appreciative crowd, the beer, had all contributed to his feeling of well-being.

And then there was Paul.

John knew, deep down in his soul, that music was his ticket out. He wanted, more than anything else in the world, to make a boatload of money and shake the dust of Liverpool from his shoes. He knew that if he didn't his future would be down at the docks or in jail. Maybe both. He loved art but didn't think it would ever pay his way. Music, though. Music could make you rich. Music could make you Elvis. Music could take you around the world.

That's what he wanted.

And he knew, deep down, that the Quarry Men wouldn't get him there. They were fun, sure. They were okay musically. But they didn't have the fire he had. They didn't want it the way he did. They didn't _need_ it the way he did.

But Paul, though. 

He was a rocker. It shone out of him, the love of the music. And where there was love, in his experience, there was need. And where there was need, well, maybe there was fire.

So, yes, Paul was better than he was musically. And, yes, probably the girls would fall for him, with that baby face. And, yes, he had a bit of an attitude, might need to be reminded who was leader.

But still, there was something about him that couldn't be ignored. And John was pretty damn sure that that's what made stars.

\--------------------

"Hey, Paul, wait up!" a voice shouted down the road at him.

Paul stopped his bike and turned and waited until Pete caught up with him.

"Shit, Paul, I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Yeah? What's up?''

"It's John. He said to tell you, if you wanted to, you could join the group."

Paul smiled to himself, pleased beyond words at the prospect.

\-----------------

John listened to the new guitar player as he worked with the group for the first time and smiled to himself. 

This was going to work out just fine.


End file.
